Free Destined to Feel by Indigo Bloome Page A

battered and bruised, but essentially unharmed. I need to focus on the positive aspects of this dismal situation.
    If they wanted to harm me, or worse — I shudder — kill me, they have had every opportunity since I stepped into that toxic car at Heathrow. As stoically as possible, I pick up the towel from the floor, wrap it around my body under my arms and search the room for any of my belongings.
    I notice the revolting piece of luggage I arrived in is no longer in this room, they must have removed it while I was having a shower. Relief washes over me — that claustrophobic journey is certainly not something I ever wish to experience again. I open the antique mahogany cupboard and notice a dress hanging in there, covered in plastic with an elegant handwritten note neatly attached.
    Please be dressed and ready for dinner by 7.00 p.m. sharp.
    I glance over to my clothes lying on the bathroom floor. Clothes that by my calculations I must have been in for at least thirty hours or so. I pick up my shirt, take a quick sniff and immediately discard it, physically and symbolically kicking the pile aside, never wanting to wear or touch them again after what they have been through, after what I have been through. But do I want to take what is being offered in the cupboard? My emotions threaten to unravel yet again as I take a deep breath and unpeel the plastic. One simple, elegant, classic cream dress. Not quite the virgin bride, but even so… What the hell is going on here? How can I be deposited in a room, presumably somewhere in Europe, in a frigging suitcase and now this? Please be dressed and ready for dinner — what the hell? My head starts to spin as I think, for the first time, to check the door of the suite. Locked, as anticipated. I don’t want to dress up. I can’t play dress-ups under these circumstances. I was never good at it, until…my mind floods with images of the stunning red designer dress Jeremy had made for me and I almost crumble under the stress of the anguish it causes. Why aren’t I with him right now? Because I am imprisoned in here. I bash my fist against the door in exasperation, my legs give way and I’m a crumpled heap on the floor. I glance towards the window and opportunistically wonder if someone will come shattering through it and rescue me from their hovering helicopter, à la James Bond or Mission Impossible .
    I race over to the window desperately searching for any sign of movement, rescue attempt, anything. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Why do such rescues only ever occur in movies?
    Darkness descends on the rapidly diminishing pink and purple hues of twilight. I run my fingers through my hair in both fear and frustration as I contemplate the dress beckoning me from the other side of the room.
    My stomach rumbles on cue, reminding me that it has been some time since my last meal.
    Nothing like basic physical needs to assist with the decision-making process. Damn it! I walk tentatively over to the dress — it’s not like I have other options available at the moment and I am stark naked. God, what if they arrive and I’m like this? This thought provides me with enough momentum to pull the dress off the hanger even though I’m filled with disgust as I touch it.
    They’ve even supplied cream underwear to match — how considerate. At least I won’t be knickerless again. I hastily get dressed in this flowing, sophisticated ball gown without wanting to dwell on it any more than I have to. I notice a box at the bottom of the cupboard, knowing that it will contain high heels and take them out, desperately hoping they won’t be too high.
    Reasonable, I sigh, in the scheme of this insanity. I quickly comb my wet hair and leave it sleek down my back. I don’t want any more fanfare than is necessary and I don’t have anything to put it up with. Either way, I don’t care how I look and have no interest in checking in the mirror. After cleaning my teeth — grateful a toothbrush and paste